The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [7]
“It’s the only place I feel safe enough to lose control,” Vicky had explained. “To let go and really scream.” They’d been having tea at the Four Seasons. The hair on Charlotte’s neck had stood on end. She’d shivered. After climbing into the cocoon of her jet black Mercedes, Vicky had lowered the back seat window.
“I can’t feel anything, Charlotte,” she’d moaned. “Nothing ever happens to me.”
Charlotte had made vague, reassuring noises while biting her tongue. Nothing ever happens to the rich, Vicky, a voice inside had wanted to shout. Haven’t you heard? It’s like driving with air bags. There’s always something to cushion the blows.
4
“It’s ridiculous, Anna. These women, they have everything, but they envy me.”
Anna laughed. “Envy is all they know, my dear.”
Setting out a single Porthault placemat, Charlotte rifled through the kitchen drawer, pulling out her favorite old hotel silver. It was a ritual. Just like these late Monday morning calls from Anna. She would gossip while Charlotte wolfed down an enormous breakfast. (Her appetite was another thing about Charlotte that drove her starving female clients crazy.)
“I’m single. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“Who isn’t?” Anna replied, briskly. “Aside from your clients? Living beyond one’s means is an art in New York. As for being single … please do not let’s go there.”
“It’s please don’t go there, no let’s.” Charlotte said, gently correcting the slip. Anna’s English was fluent. The occasional idiomatic mistake only added to her charms. And she was right. She was better off without Paul.
“You forget the most important thing, Charlotte. You have confidence.”
Slathering a piece of toast with imported Dutch butter and jam, Charlotte sighed. “Not really. I just pretend.”
“Two seconds, cara. Someone’s on the other line …”
The toast was burnt. Punching the speaker button so that she could hear her friend when she returned to the line, Charlotte swept up a pile of charred crumbs. “The happiest cynics on earth.” This is how Fellini described his fellow Italians. Anna fit that description to a tee. The Wop Wasp, which is what the designer, Bill Blass, had affectionately called her, was equally apt. An extraordinarily elegant Venetian antique dealer, Anna was the kind of woman other women dressed for. Charlotte was as enamored of her restraint, her perfect manners and quiet chic, as she was of her baroque-like outpourings of opinion and emotion. At sixty-seven years old, nothing surprised her.
She was also the only woman who seemed to appreciate Charlotte’s gestures. Cutting off another slice of bread and sliding it in the toaster, Charlotte realized how much she looked forward to finding the small gifts at flea markets and Tepper auctions: gifts like old marbles, vintage Christmas ornaments, crystal-studded compacts from the ’20s and gold-flecked beeswax candles. Anna was infatuated with all things that sparkled, things that caught the light and dazzled the eye. “Italy is defined by gestures,” she would announce, giving Charlotte a quick kiss. “And you are a master of the grand gesture.” Gazing at her reflection in the silvery surface of the toaster, Charlotte knew that the gifts were also a form of courtship; part of her timid but determined efforts to create a connection with Anna. It was complicated, making a new friend at her age. There were no reference points, no common history.
The pop of the toaster shattered the silence as Anna’s voice returned to the line.
“Charlotte? I’m back. And just so you know … All real confidence begins with